A sequential self Illustration of a day off work.

The Identity Riots part 0

Somewhere in Rogers Park, one of the last places in Chicago where all of the magic and myth of a city still lives.

By the time Marc and I arrive at Simon Talbot’s party we are already stoned from the hitter that we had passed between us on the way there.

The room was filled with familiar strangers speaking in those awkward soliloquies that pass for conversation when people are becoming drunk.

After a few moments of bullshitting with friends and acquaintances that I’ve neglected to keep in touch with for one reason or another I can feel that I’m being watched from across the apartment, and while Talbot’s place isn’t large it is at capacity.

I don’t have to scan the place long before her green eyes draw mine in.

There she was, standing next to a gaudy plastic plant talking to two girls, all three dressed like their grandmothers, 1950’s secretaries.

Katherine-

Of course she’d be here.

Beth Gibbons & Rustin Man ‘Tom the Model’ is playing in surround sound, and for a moment I think she’s mouthing words to me from across the room.

Then I realize that I’m just high and getting drunk fast, then she’s gone, swept up in a sea of bodies and now Joshua is talking about his brother in Tel Aviv who’s punk venue is getting shut down.

Throughout the night, no matter what part of the apartment we are in we kept finding ourselves making eye contact, trading quick knowing smiles.

And then when one of us could not see the other, we make a near concerted effort to locate the other, but never to speak, never did we get close, always near some other friend, or suitor, or antagonist, the tide of the room shifted like this for two or three hours.

Talbot, drunk now orders me to play music “something chill” he insist.

I comply.

Flaming Lips ‘Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell’, Phantogram ‘When I’m Small” Beirut ‘East Harlem’, TV on the Radio ‘You’.

Marc passes me a joint, I inhale, Katherine finds my eye I play The Secret Life of Sophia ‘We may find a Pearl’ and Joshua say’s “don’t put us all to sleep.”

Then finally giving in to the fact that all gravitational poles in the 3 rooms of the flat led to she and I we say hello.

The room falls silent

Joshua then enthusiastically exclaims “I’m up!” and begins to thumb through Talbot’s vinyl collection.

End Act I

Without speaking we decide to sit beneath the dining room table, retreating like children from so many adults, the whole time drinking Patron margaritas and making fun of everyone there.

To do this we had to steal the Patron from the kitchen, procure a blender and margarita mix and ice.

No one seemed inclined to stop us, or investigate the laughter and occasional sounds of a blender coming from beneath the table.

It was obscene.

Not even Talbot put a stop to it, which I figured meant that he was blowing some ‘straight’ boy in his bedroom, an act for which he was notorious for doing at his own parties.

Around 1a.m. We had been sitting there quiet for about five minutes, and the tequila had abandoned us, or we drank it all, whatever the case it was all gone.

We sat starring a few moments more at the three sets of legs and shoes resting on a sofa, more legs and shoes passing by the table.

The apartment seemed to keep getting fuller with legs and shoes and no signs of stopping; and it would have been easier to distinguish the people at this party by their shoes than to recognize them by their faces at this point.

Katherine then turns her head to say something and I kiss her, she leans in for it.

I reach for her waist and then her breast, she holds my hand there even after we pull away .

We sneak out before our friends can talk us out of the electricity of the moment.

At about 4.30 am we’re at the Lakefront sitting on a giant rock formation on the beach in the still of dawn, the sky stretches before us in bands of gold, indigo and rose.

The breeze is maddeningly perfect, the tide low and serene.

In the darkness of a new day we confess our agnosticism and laugh at ourselves.

We confess our love of one another (alcohol always helps with that one revelation))

then anoint one another with soft kisses to the lip.

She tells me she still feels safe in my arms.

Still.

“I have to work at 2” I say standing, dusting the sand from the rocks off my jeans.

“Stay with me tonight” she says, not asking, but stating in a matter of fact way.

“This morning you mean?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Sure”

(Of course it would go this way)

I help her up, and she begins to sing the Portishead’s ‘The Rip’, which sends me into reverie of Inez, another young lady who played that very same song right before dawn not two nights before.

“I know you know this song” she says

“… but want to play this for you”

Her voice husky and distracted, her thick brunette hair covering her dark eyes, her shape all silhouetted in marijuana smoke.

What’s happening? I think to myself.

I try not to draw a connection between the two, so I push Inez out of my mind, but I cannot lie, the song no matter how pretty Katherine’s voice, is off putting due to the synchronicity.

We walk to Broadway and hail a cab, she continues humming the song, I try to get it together.

Finally in her apartment, in her bedroom the light of the new day threatens all moods by its persistent nature of light reason and stark reality.

She’s laughing again, barely audible, yet her body convulses with the intensity of it.

She removes her clothing without grace, and becomes reddened with the revelation of her breast and hardened nipples, I trace my hands across them, then take one into my mouth she moans to the rhythm of my tongue.

I remove my shirt and am semi-embarrassed by my gut, she smiles and begins to undue my belt, her hands already in my pants, on my cock.

We fall into her blankets kissing, and grinding, I don’t remember when it happens but next we’re sleeping.

Too drunk and stoned for anything else.

Her body feels good next to mine, we exchange words that I cannot recall and mean nothing while drifting in and out of sleep.

At 12pm I awaken to the sound of NPR.

She’s in the shower, and I decide I should get dressed and head home to shower myself.

Just as I’m pulling up my boxers she emerges from the restroom with a towel wrapped modestly about her.

“Do you want to get breakfast or something?” She asks.

The magic of yesterday faded, it sounds obligatory.

“I’ll eat at work.”

“You sure you don’t want to eat now?”

She undoes the towel revealing her wet body, she smiles bashfully, her body reddens again, and for a moment she seems shocked by her own boldness.

I take her waist in my hands and pull her close.

We fuck like heathens on Beltane.

40 minutes later we’re at McDonalds eating McNuggets and bashing on the Transformers movie.

Being with her is too comfortable, it always is, probably always will be.

The kind of comfort that’s frightening to a person like me.

Maybe I’m too defensive, maybe I’m not built for it, and maybe I’m afraid of being weak.

Or I’m afraid of being hurt, and who’s not except for those suckers who live for that kind of emotional masochism.

During the conversation she interjects her ex-boyfriend’s name quite a bit.

Saying things like-

“He’s the type of asshole who would’ve been waiting for a movie like this since childhood.”

“What a dork (insert name here) is.”

And on like that she went throwing me sharp looks throughout.

I wonder where this line of conversation is headed

Then after a long silence she informs me that they’re hanging out this weekend.

“Y’know to see if there’s anything worth… salvaging.”

She says in a semi-joking fashion.

Change subject change subject

“You miss him?” I ask, not really wanting to start this conversation in a McDonalds of all places.

She pauses starring at me with accusatory eyes and says

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

“Do you want him back?” I ask.

She pauses again

“I… don’t know… “

She’s looking out the window now, and twirling a fry between her thumb and fingers with no small intensity.

“I don’t know usually means no.” I say

And the tears I didn’t want to come out roll down her cheeks, so I cross to her side of the booth and hug her.

“I know.” She says

“We should have waited to do this.”

She says plaintively

Still crying she pushes me away weakly.

I let go of my embrace but still sit besides her until she’s done which isn’t long.

She cleans her eyes with a napkin then recoils as if stung, and laughs through the tears.

“Ow! Even the fucking napkins here are covered in salt.”

“C’mon, walk me to the el.” I say

The day is perfect, the sky is an intense blue that Chicago is not known for.

“So what’re you going to do with your weekend?” I ask.

And she pauses in her steps glaring at me

“You don’t want to still hang out?”

“But I thought that after the talk y’know…”

“You have other plans?”

“No” I say.

“Don’t be such a punk, man up for once.”

“I want to hang out” I say defensively.

” But…”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

After a few moments she says

“Sometimes I don’t know means I don’t know.”

“Right, right. Hugs?”

She hugs me briefly

“Have a good day at work”

“Good luck with your paper.” I say.

We wait for the other to leave, so it’s slow and awkward in that endearing way two lovers are awkward about things.

As I sit on the el headed north I notice a Red Eye tabloid on the empty both seat across from me, it’s cover story reads

‘Ex for a reason’

I try not to draw a connection between the paper and the situation.

The Red Eyes an awful publication anyways.

So I begin to do the crossword in it, two minutes in I think to myself.

Damn we should have waited to do this.

I hate it when she’s right.

This is pretty much what I’ve been listening to as I write bad fiction.

if you’ve never listened to Beth Gibbons (of Portishead fame) & Rustin Man then you need to get on it her voice sounds as though someone recorded a ghost in a haunted house sweetly singing a melancholic dirge to her past loves...

Upon closer inspection of this weeks playlist it seems that I have drifted back into the land of sad bastard music… which is fine by me.

Favorite thing about Ordering Thai food.

Tuesday 8pm. “I’d like to order the Naem Tod Minor, Tofu Pad Thai, and the Chicken Satay”

“Okay, That’ll be 15minutes”

“Thanks”.

Wednesday 3pm “I’d like an order of Tofu Spring rolls”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes”

“Okay 15minutes”

I was reading a Spider-man comic when the idea came to me and I had to put it to paper before the idea faded. Meet the Sinister Sixteen year old’s! 

I couldn’t resist putting the Kingpin in a Charlie Brown T (I’m not sure if he or Bullseye were ever part of the Six but I threw em in anyway.)

Here’s the last four of the dream plates drawn while running a high fever.

Here’s a fun thing to do (*maybe) if you get the flu this winter.

1. Drink a shit ton of cold medicine.

(yes shit-ton is an actual scientific measurement; it means more the a fuck load.)

2. Follow it up with an irresponsible ammount of cold pills and painkillers.

3. Get out your art pad and decide to write poetry/ comic book.

4. Go crazy and summon demons/ design a time machine that talks to the gods (apparently).

Weirdest part about these pieces is that i vaguely remember drawing any of them.

And I also felt alot better :^)

As an avid maker of poor decisions I encourage everyone to follow the above advice, and see what kind of art/poetry you create during your temporary stay in schizophrenia.

Yseson’s Library

And now for this weeks episode of what the fuck is Packer listing to this week. Lot of Lo-Fi, a lot of Synth Pop and lot of British Hip Hop. Also Lissy Trullie hits all of my favorite lesbian buttons… did I mention I’m primarily attracted to lesbians? Unfortunate as I’m  a straight dude. ummmm Anyways.

Adventures in Espresso snobbery day… 350 something.

Today I made an awesome Costa Rica pour over for a customer, the bloom was perfect, the time accurate. I proudly presented this awesome drink to the customer, (she smiled prettily) and walked to the condiment bar. And I thought ‘no this bitch ain’t gone put milk in that drink’. I’ve gone too far

Here’s the new ad

I was recently approached to do an ad for the Metropolis Coffee company for the Chicago Reader. I drew the original to the specifics of one of the owners (Tony Dreyfuss, but once the second owner (Tony’s Dad Jeff Dreyfuss) saw the content he figured it’d be too risque for the company. After a quick e-mail about the changes to be made I got began to redo the entire thing. 

Here’s the scraped project, enjoy.

Karma is bullshit, do good regardless.

(In response to a pseudo spiritual person giving me a speech about  how I’ll be rewarded for the good I do; I don’t  want to offend anyone but superstition doesn’t apply to my life outside of awesome fiction)

When people ask  ”are you working hard or hardly working?” This falls into the hardly working category.

As winter approaches with it’s overcast and cold light, I muse over my photos from summer and fall. Even an amateur photographer such as myself can tell the difference between seasonal light; especially since I over expose everything to a monochromatic freak out. Anyways here’s a group of photos from the warmer side of ‘11.

I made this video of news clippings while talking with my homey Mike… then added Hospital Ships “I wanted to get out” cuz I thought it was appropriate; even though it changes the context of the song.

-Enjoy